


Loophole

by uchiha_s



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:39:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uchiha_s/pseuds/uchiha_s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gift fic for Shan84 for the GC Tomione Convention Spring Exchange. Oneshot, Partially DHC, EWE. The war is over and the Light has lost. Ten years later, the most powerful man in the world stumbles upon something hidden in a hollowed out tree that will change everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loophole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shan84](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shan84/gifts), [Tomione_Forum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomione_Forum/gifts).



> Notes: special thanks to Nerys for helping me with brainstorming so much. Warnings: threesome, anal, ageplay, character death.

 

 

_Loophole_

 

On the wild, tangled moor sits Hogwarts Castle, its many turrets looming over the Forbidden Forest. Through one of the slitted windows, moonlight shines on a pale, angular face — a face that has not been seen for over half a century. A pale hand, its elegance matching the face of its owner, grasps the edge of the window, its fingers coming upon the rough, worn stonework of the castle wall.

Tom peers out over the grounds, wet with dew and silvery in the bright moonlight. He wants freedom, and he knows it will not be granted to him.

His master forgets the truth — he is not a son of his master, nor is he a slave; rather, he is a copy. Long white fingers grasp a wand that is yew, with phoenix feather at the center. It is not as powerful as his master's Elder wand, but it has certainly done enough powerful magic in its time. It will do for now.

The air around the castle shimmers, as though punctured, and Tom finds himself standing on the grass now, looking back up at the castle, feeling quite satisfied. What will his Master, Father, Lord Voldemort, think of that?

His cloak billows diaphanously like smoke round his svelte form as he approaches the Forbidden Forest: this is his first taste of real freedom in his short life. He is both ten years old and eighty years old; he is both primeval and ephemeral. All he has known for his waking, conscious life is the castle walls of Hogwarts, but tonight, all that changes.

The full moon's sweet round face casts a silver pallor upon everything and his blood tingles with anticipation. Something draws him irresistibly towards these woods — is it merely the tantalizing freedom which they symbolize, or is there something darker at play? Tom has been created from the darkest, blackest magic, and so his very nerves are sensitive to similar dark magic. He doubts he is wrong, for he has not been wrong yet — there is something in these woods that matches him, and he longs to find it.

He trundles through the underbrush, twigs snapping and leaves crushing beneath his steps. He pulls up his hood and within it his normally blue-grey eyes, unremarkable in their color, gleam blood red. His false heart begins to race, a thing it has never done before, and he knows he is coming close to that which he seeks.

 

_Ten Years Earlier_

Hermione swore and ducked behind a tree, her filthy, scratched, bleeding hands trembling as she clutched her wand with her left hand — her right arm had just been broken, so it was useless. In her pocket was the beaded bag, weighing her jumper down disproportionately, and in the back pocket of her worn, torn denims was an innocuous little black book — perhaps the most important item on her at this moment.

Far off she could hear the battle cries, the sounds of spells singeing and curses and Hexes shattering their victims. It was over, she knew, and this was her last remaining idea. She cast around for a place — it couldn't be too ceremonial, lest it fall into the wrong hands, but just throwing it anywhere seemed wrong, after all this time — and her brown eyes, bloodshot from weariness and yellowed with malnourishment, no longer sparkling with the same life and hope that they once had, fell upon the place.

She had to laugh, in spite of it all. How fitting, she thought, as on weak, uneven steps, she approached the hollowed-out tree. It wasn't exactly perfect, as this was not a tiara, but it was pretty close. Hermione plucked the little black book, which was crumpled from travel and use, from her pocket, and nestled it in the tree. There. As she turned from it, she felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her narrow shoulders, and for the first time in nearly a year, she was able to stand up straight. All of the horror, all of the sacrifice, all of the loss — perhaps it would be worth it. She was as always logical but in this moment, she could at least pray that there was some higher power, that there was some way she could witness whether this had worked or not. If nothing else, she hated not knowing if she was right or not.

Luckily, she was pretty damn sure she was right this time. She hadn't practiced this sort of magic before — thank goodness, she'd never had the opportunity or the desire — but she was as confident in her prodigious skill as she ever had been. This was to be her final act of magic, as the spell required her dying now, rendering any defense on her part an obstruction to her cause.

Hermione began the slow walk to her death. She thought of the moment when this had all started, at Malfoy Manor, and she reflected on all she had lost there. The torture had been nothing compared to what they had stolen from her — the very thing she had been planning on giving to Ron, after the war was over — and she recalled the moment that his face had loomed over hers.

In the chamber, alone together, as she lay on the sprawling mattress, her limbs weakened by magic, she had known what was to happen. And yet, it had not happened in the way she might have guessed after all. The door had shut, bolted shut with powerful magic, and there had been a shadow in the doorway — tall, slim, dark. Even before seeing his face, she had suspected the twin points of gleaming red, and she had felt the air become thick with his power. It was like receiving a surge of adrenaline and she had found herself gasping and reeling.

“Bella was to be the donor,” began a high, cold, sibilant voice, as she heard bare feet and the brushing of cloak upon flagstone — he was approaching, then. “But when I saw your impeccable defense of those spells earlier, without a wand, the decision was made for me, it seems.”

“I'm a Mudblood — do you really want to soil yourself by coupling with someone as foul-blooded as me?” This was her last defense, her words, and they sounded thin and pathetic, hanging in the air like wilted flowers, in the midst of his power. She heard a cold, cultured laugh.

“I suppose that in a way, this is a form of reproduction. It does produce another life. But I would never stoop to something so low, so Muggle, as typical sex. Sorry to disappoint.”

He was upon her now; his shadow eclipsed the low lamplight and then he was silhouetted above her, more terrible than she had ever imagined. There was the faintest ghost of his former handsomeness in his elegantly carved jaw and high cheekbones, but his cruel, slitted eyes which gleamed red and the repulsive nostrils and sickly white skin was far more visible and salient, and she almost wondered if those last vestiges of handsomeness had been her imagination. “Your blood is foul, yes, Mudblood, but your mind — ah. That is something that can certainly be of use to me.”

She attempted to bolster herself up, thinking only of wanting to be like Harry, in her death — marching to meet it, with eyes open. Voldemort's pale lips quirked in amusement as he stood back to admire her.

“What are you going to do with me?” Ludicrously, she pictured her brain in a jar, in a caricature of some sort of magical rendition of Frankenstein. This was not the moment to laugh, of course, but perhaps she was in shock.

“I will explain it to you, as I appreciate your curiosity — it will aid my reincarnation quite well, I imagine...” He began to pace, his fine black robes, impeccably cut, sweeping the cold flagstone, “...To reincarnate is to recreate oneself. Many philosophers have remarked that this is what drives mankind to copulate — not the desire to demonstrate love, nor the need to keep a species going — but instead, the overwhelming wish to see oneself live forever; to ensure one's blood remains pumping through one's heart. Giving birth to children is a bastardized means of achieving this, but, of course, we know that it is not successful. A child has its own mind, and no matter how much you might manipulate it, it is still subject to so many genetic flaws, changes, errors — pollution from its other creator.

“There is Dark magic — the most powerful Dark magic, perhaps — that enables one to exist on Earth indefinitely. However, it is flawed. Once your soul is fragmented too many times, your existence becomes a shadow of its former self. It is not death, but it is hardly a life. This alone is enough to deter most people seeking immortality.

“I, however, through many experiments and much sacrifice, have discovered how I might solve this problem. When the soul is split, it cannot be pieced back together without much sacrifice, and even then, you risk the return of mortality. But when another soul is split, these souls can be attached together, to form something new — a reincarnation.”

“But wouldn't that just be like a child?” Hermione interrupted, her eyes flashing. “You'd still have to share half a soul with another person.” Voldemort's lips curled in amusement.

“Correct. Unless you only take a portion of that soul, only the part you need, and leave the rest.” He began to pace again. “In this way, the soul you've fragmented and taken — as I said, the donor soul — remains mortal and able to be killed or to die naturally.”

“How could you possibly get just one piece of another person's soul?”

“You are about to find out.”

Suddenly her limbs were released, and Hermione sat up. Voldemort waved his wand leisurely, and her wand hovered before her. With her gaze trained on Voldemort, though it repulsed her to look at him and meet his hideous eyes, she reached out and snatched her wand. “Your job is simple, Miss Granger,” he began, approaching her almost lazily. He cirlced round the mattress, and waved his wand again. She was jerked forward, into a standing position in front of the bed, and the mattress disappeared. Suddenly he was behind her, whispering, his breath on the shell of her ear, “all you need do is utter the Killing Curse; I will deal with the rest.”

Her mouth went dry as the door opened again, and Bellatrix appeared, bearing Ginny Weasley. Hermione's mind, normally so cool and organized, flew into a state of panic. To rebel would mean instant death for both of them, she knew. In desperation, she ran over everything she knew of Horcruxes, as Bellatrix giggled, ran a knife along Ginny's pale, slender throat, and licked her cheek. “That will quite do, Bella,” said Voldemort. Ginny held her head high, her eyes flashing with rage, but her lip was quivering though she tried to hide it. Hermione's palms began to sweat so much that her wand was slippery in her grip, and she thought she might faint.

There was no way out.

“I won't kill her,” said Hermione flatly. She heard Voldemort laugh silkily, and then her wand arm was raised, against her will. She thought of Harry as she desperately tried to fight off the Imperius Curse. Open your mouth, said a little, sly voice in her mind, and she began to feel a sense of calm. Wasn't it easier to give in? She didn't really have a choice, so why fight?

 _No. No. I will fight,_ thought Hermione, gritting her teeth, and yet, even as she thought this, her mouth was opening, her tongue was curving slightly...

“Avada Kedavra.”

This was to be the first of many murders; by the time Dobby came and helped them to escape Malfoy Manor — dying in the process — Hermione's soul had been split into thirteen pieces. Upon learning of Ginny's death, Harry changed, as did Ron. They knew it had been done against Hermione's will, and yet, the fact that Voldemort now possessed a piece of their best friend's soul seemed to change everything.

It was her choice to break away from them. She reasoned with Ron and Harry that they didn't know how much control Voldemort had over the rest of her, and it would be unwise to leave her in their presence. So she went off on her own, with her books and her split, fractured, ugly soul, her mind lucid with the horrors and the shame and the guilt of what she had done, and she had devoted her remaining life to finding a way to undo what had been done.

It was easy, she soon learned — her face had changed, so no one recognized her. It was easy to gain access to other fonts of knowledge, because her features had become so twisted, so unlike hers, that she was no longer Hermione Granger. She was something else — perhaps she was nothing. Often she felt like little more than vapor, and yet she knew she still was in possession — just barely — of a solid, relatively working body.

Two months later, here she stood, her trainers sinking into the damp earth of the Forbidden Forest. Voldemort had taken a piece of her soul for a reason — that reason being that she was the cleverest witch in existence. But his own methods were to work against him now, and though, upon murdering The Chosen One he might believe that victory was his, the truth was that this was just the beginning of his loss.

She began to walk steadily towards Hogwarts, thinking back on different times. Remembering defeating the troll with Harry and Ron, remembering visiting Hagrid, remembering helping Harry work against Voldemort... her life would not be a waste, and in death, she would be able to save the Wizarding world.

So why did she still feel scared and sad? Why did she, ludicrously, long for her mum?

She breached the edge of the Forest, and had no trouble in making her way up to the castle. Harry's dead body lay amongst the wreckage as the last of the Light was vanquished. Hermione, thinking again of Harry, knelt down and picked up a stone, and hurled it towards Voldemort.

He turned, and over his shoulder his red eyes showed recognition, and a faint, knowing smile curved his horrible lips, before he raised his wand and whispered the Unforgivable words: _Avada Kedavra._

 

_Present_

Tom knows, of course, all of the triumphs and tribulations of his Lord and Master. After all, his mind is Voldemort's, and Voldemort's mind is his. However, there are gaps, significant ones, and he knows that this is Voldemort's only means of power over him. And sometimes, there are differences, differences which they both perceive, differences between them that are too remarkable to go unnoticed.

So when his eyes alight upon a hollowed-out tree, and he feels the powerful Dark magic irradiating from it, he wonders if this is Voldemort's doing. Yet why would he feel the need to hide the Horcrux here? Tom sees the little black diary and senses the power surrounding it, and reaches out to pick it out of the hollow. The moonlight leaves dappled silver light in eerie patterns along his white hand, and then his fingers find purchase around the leather binding, and he lets out a gasp of surprise.

Unmistakably, there is a sense of fitting together — what had before been missing is now put back together, like a glass that had been shattered, the shards flying about, are suddenly flying backwards in time, reuniting again.

Nothing changes. Tom looks around frantically, gasping and heaving; everything is different, somehow, in some intangible way, and yet nothing has actually happened. He looks down at the book and his clever mind — far cleverer in so many unanticipated ways than that of Voldemort's — now understands that his Lord did not hide a Horcrux here.

In fact, this isn't a Horcrux at all.

He has held Voldemort's Horcruxes before, and though he has never told Voldemort this, he has always had the oddest sense of both undeniable longing and insatiable repulsion. Even standing near them causes him the greatest discomfort, and he has never understood why. If he is a perfect copy of Voldemort's younger self, why would he be so revolted by the Horcruxes? If anything, he should feel a powerful yearning to be near them at all times, in the same way that Voldemort does, and yet there is something different there — but why?

He knows he cannot tell Voldemort of this thing he has found, and he also knows that he does not have much time left before he will be missed at the castle. A cruel smirk curves his full lips as he stows the little black diary in his cloak pocket. He turns, his fine black robes and cloak swirling about him, before hurrying back to Hogwarts. 

* * *

 

Voldemort returns soon after Tom does, from a meeting in Germany, and his presence is felt all over the castle. Tom is hiding in one of the towers, one that was once Gryffindor Tower. It is a place he has always felt a secret draw to, and though he knows he is meant to be ashamed of this affinity, he is not. He simply knows he can never reveal it.

He curls up in a window seat and opens the diary, flicking through the pages. They are blank. Recalling Voldemort's tale of how he used his diary to draw Harry Potter into the Chamber of Secrets, Tom conjures a quill and ink and begins to write in his elegant script.

_Tell me who you are._

He smirks in satisfaction when the ink seeps into the page and disappears.

 _ **You know who I am. You must**_. The handwriting is tiny, tightly wound; the handwriting of someone of obsessive neatness and organization.

 _I asked you a question, and you will answer it_ , he writes back, feeling a stab of irritation. He has never liked being made to feel stupid — after all, he is the cleverest person in existence.

**_Let me show you._ **

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and Tom sets down the quill, preparing to be drawn into a memory like Harry Potter was.

There is a lurch, and then the diary disappears, and everything spins.

And suddenly there is a young woman sitting on his lap.

Tom's eyes widen as he attempts to calculate what is happening. There's no need to give away how little he knows; better to play each move with care for the moment. The girl regards him with wide brown eyes, sparkling with intelligence, and he feels an inexplicable but powerful stab of recognition. Beyond that is an unmistakable allure, and the draw to her he feels is just as powerful as the feeling he's got that he knows her.

“So you're the reincarnate,” she surmises, cocking her head to the side and studying him. Her hair is impossibly bushy, and there are blood stains on her clothes and smudges of dirt and blood on her pale skin. Tom arches his brows.

“Get off my lap,” he says imperiously. The girl scoffs and hops off, lightly. Tom rises to his feet, wand at the ready. The girl stands there, hands on her hips, looking... amused. What an insolent, obnoxious brat! He will simply kill her.

 ** _Oh, try all you like, but if you kill me, you kill yourself_** , echoes a very bossy voice in his mind. Tom balks, but attempts to remain cool and collected. He approaches her, wand held aloft and at the ready. **_You didn't know, then?_**

 _The only other person who can communicate with me like this is Voldemort_ , he responds coolly, his eyes roving over her appearance. She's in Muggle clothing and it looks like it's seen far better days.

 ** _Well, that would make sense, seeing as your soul consists of his and mine_** , she says in a very know-it-all sort of voice. Tom narrows his eyes and they flash red. The girl bites her lip. _ **I can help you, you know.**_

 _Why in Salazar's name would I need your help?_ he sneers at her and she doesn't look one bit impressed.

**_Because Voldemort's soul is split into nine pieces. You have one piece of his soul, and one piece of mine. If you are to overcome him and become independent, you'll need me._ **

_I am independent — Voldemort and I are one in the same,_ he retorts. The girl arches her brows.

**_Then why is it you are repulsed by his Horcruxes? Why is it you felt such a powerful longing that you were unmistakably drawn directly to me? Why is it that there are so many things you don't know — so many things he has not chosen to share with you? Why have you been confined here for your entire life, when you could be so much more?_ **

Her voice, bossy and overbearing, is powerfully irritating, and yet, her words hold undeniable logic to them. He surveys her, musing on this. She clearly knows quite a bit, and she's right — he is not the same as Voldemort. They are separate people. Not only that, he is unmistakably superior.

Even Voldemort knows this. He must, which is why he has neglected to divulge so many things; which is why he has kept him confined in this castle for ten years.

 ** _He can't kill you, because to do so would be to kill himself. You're an experiment gone wrong — a terrible investment,_** the girl is saying, echoing his own thoughts. _**So there is nothing for him to do but keep you locked away, keep you deprived of knowledge that you might use to surpass him.**_

She's right. Tom turns away, lost in thought. There's something else — something further convincing him, even beyond her knowledge, the draw of her power, and the powerful familiarity he feels when looking at her, like viewing his own reflection in the mirror. The surge of power he feels, having her here, is no accident. Tom turns back to her, a smirk curving his lips.

_Where do we begin?_

For the first time, the girl looks uncertain. She hesitates. _What?_ he prompts impatiently. He watches her gulp against a fear and steel her will.

 ** _I've been waiting ten years for this,_** she begins, and there is a tone in her voice that chills even him. Tom approaches her, circles her, basks in the undeniable clench of attraction he feels towards her. _So this is what it feels like to meet your equal_ , he muses. Technically, they are soulmates — for he holds a piece of her soul within him — but then that means that Voldemort is also their soulmate.

 _The power I feel, from having you here..._ he says, and the girl nods vehemently. _It's enough to surpass him. I can feel it._ The notion sets his false heart racing again and he must grasp onto the windowsill for support.

 _ **Exactly**_ , she says, _**and he will perceive that he is cornered as well. He's no fool.**_

Tom turns back to her and his blue-grey eyes, unremarkable on any other man — but he is so much more than just a man — train on her intelligent brown eyes. Without bothering to contemplate the consequences of such an action, he reaches out... and touches her. He rests his hand on her collarbone. Though she is vapor, he can touch her as though she is solid flesh and bone. Her skin is cool to the touch.

His heart, not a real, human heart, really, is still racing. He moves his hand along her skin, up her neck, to her narrow jaw. She stands there, her eyes narrowed, observing him. He knows that she only allows this because she feels it too, and this heady thought makes him move faster, until his hand has fisted in her hair and he is pulling her close, and his smooth lips are meeting her chapped ones in a greedy, searing kiss.

And then his instep is on fire. Tom growls and clutches his foot in pain, and fires a Hex at the girl, but it passes right through her.

“I don't recall saying you could do that,” she says aloud. Tom looks up at her, his eyes still watering in pain.

“I don't need permission to do anything,” he parries. The girl sets her hands on her hips.

“Oh? Then why are you still here, in this castle?”

_You're only feeling brave because you know I can't kill you._

“Well, I would say that is quite a good reason to feel brave,” she says, eyes flashing. “It's been known to be an obsession for certain wizards over the years, after all...”

* * *

 The Chamber of Secrets is where Voldemort dwells now; it is where he sleeps, takes his meals, and rests. Tom is the only person privileged to enter these quarters, and he hisses in Parseltongue to allow him entry to his creator's lair. With Hermione Granger so nearby, he feels more confident, more powerful. Voldemort is the most accomplished Legilimens in the world, but Tom is the most accomplished Occlumens — especially now that he is drawing on her power.

With his regal, lovely head held high, he enters the Chamber, his robes flapping behind him. He expects to surprise Voldemort; catch him off guard; then attack, and suppress him enough that he can escape the Hogwarts boundaries which Voldemort has set up to imprison him. He's been waiting for this moment for most of his consciousness, and now he has the power and means to do it.

But when he reaches the Chamber, lit with cold, pallid light, he sees the tall, thin, black robed figure of Voldemort, facing the enormous statue of Salazar. Tom halts his steps; he senses knowingness in his creator's form.

 _Where is she_? Voldemort's voice slithers round his mind. Tom arches his brows innocently as Voldemort whirls around to face him, his gleaming red eyes like twin curses frozen in space.

“Who?” he asks almost sweetly. Voldemort relaxes and cocks his head to the side, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“This is an amusing development — one I admit I did not expect,” replies Voldemort, as he saunters forward, closing in on Tom. Tom smirks. He cannot resist revealing part of his hand.

“And isn't it telling,” he begins, drawing his wand, as he and Voldemort begin to circle each other, “that you did not expect it?”

“I find it more telling that you went ten years without suspecting a thing,” he parries easily. Tom scoffs.

“I suspected the whole time; the trouble was finding proof without hurting my own situation. Unfortunately, that day has come, and your time is finished.”

“You kill me, you kill yourself,” says Voldemort easily, looking amused. Tom can see why Hermione Granger was Voldemort's choice of a donor now.

“Who said anything about murder?”

They freeze in their tracks when there is a surge of power that they both can feel. They turn to look back at the mouth of the Chamber as light footsteps are approaching. Soon Hermione, ghostly and partially vapor, stands there, regarding them.

“What a trifle,” murmurs Voldemort appreciatively. He stalks to Hermione, surveying her with great interest.

“Hopefully by now you have realized that none of us can kill the other without killing ourselves,” she says coolly.

“Yes, and would you call this a victory, Miss Granger?” Voldemort continues to be amused. Tom clenches his teeth; this is not going as planned.

“Would you?”

Her words are significant and her dark eyes are aflame with some secret fire. “Would you call him a successful invention?”

Voldemort's features twist in fury and he slashes his wand; it does nothing to Hermione. “If you want to kill me, you'll have to kill him, thus killing yourself,” she explains with great condescension.

“What an insolent girl — I can see where Tom gets it from,” Voldemort hisses. The way he says _Tom_ is so derisive, so shameful. In this moment, Tom understands how Voldemort regards him — as evidence of his own failure, a horrible and permanently visible albatross, forever in his proverbial line of sight.

_He doesn't want to act like we're one person._

_Because we're not._

_And that means he failed._

“I suppose we'll just have to come to some sort of deal,” says Hermione, meeting Voldemort's gaze. Tom strolls over to them, unable to stop a smirk from forming. Voldemort's lack of victory is his own victory purely by default.

Voldemort stares at Hermione. He has broken her spirit once and taken her life once more, but it has not dampened the life radiating from her, even in this form. Rage twines with respect and he cannot help but feel a flare of desire. After all this time, she is still determined to save her friends, still determined to have the last word... And she could, were he any other man, and that makes this all the sweeter for him.

He could never forget that day at Malfoy Manor, the way she had looked lying on the bed, her wild hair like thorned vines surrounding a drawn, pale face — war had melted away any signs of care and love that her appearance had borne — but her eyes twin points of bright, indefatigable spirit. He could never forget the clench of anticipation he had felt in his very core upon meeting those eyes that day. Even in that condition — damaged, nearly broken, almost dead — the air had been thick with her rebellious and determined power.

Here she stands, between the two most powerful men in the universe — and she is not afraid. Hermione wonders if they really think they will win, if they really think her so foolish as to expect a deal to be made. No, she has not spent ten years as vapor to simply bargain with Voldemort.

Over Hermione's head, Tom and Voldemort's eyes meet, and each flash red as matching smirks curve their lips. They don’t share a mind for nothing, of course, and right now they are most certainly thinking the same thing...

Voldemort rests a pale hand, the fingers overlong, on Hermione’s narrow shoulder. No one has to say a word — they can feel where this is going. The power is too intoxicating, the magnetic pull between them too alluring. Tom slides his hand to her jawline again, mimicking what occurred less than an hour before, and this time, Hermione allows it, as she sinks into the kiss. There is another hand fisted in her hair, tearing her away from Tom, and then Voldemort is biting down on her lip. She does not bleed — she can’t — but she still feels the shock of pain twisted into pleasure. One small hand fists in Voldemort’s fine black robes, the other in Tom’s, and she is both pulling them each closer yet pushing them away.

She has not felt alive for ten long years, but in this instant, she remembers what it was like to be alive: blood pumping through her veins, nerves tingling with sensation, ears sensing sound... It is all too much, after ten years spent inside of a book. She feels them falling, and they fall onto a bed — none are sure who Conjured it but they’d all argue it was them, of course — and Tom is pinned beneath her and Voldemort is behind her, running his tongue along the bumps of her spine as he pushes her jumper over her head.

She looks down at Tom, at his ethereal, angelic face. For a moment, his eyes are wide. She thinks of how much Voldemort has withheld from him — in so many ways, he truly is a child. She undoes his robes, revealing more alabaster skin. She leans down to press her lips to his torso, but at the last moment, there is a sharp, painful tug on her hair, and she is jerked backwards, hitting bare skin as cool to the touch as her own. Between the three of them, Tom is the most alive, and therefore, the warmest blood. Sharp teeth graze along her neck as her hands are held behind her back.

As always, Voldemort is trying to demonstrate that they are separate, that he is superior — but he is wrong. Because Tom is feeling something that he knows will ruin Voldemort. As he watches pale hands remove Hermione’s thin cotton bra, he feels his blood set on fire, and he knows that Voldemort cannot feel this — because Voldemort is just barely alive. Pale hands, the skin almost green in the pallid lighting, cup her breasts and cause her to utter a gasp. She is looking less and less vaporous, and there is a new flush to her cheeks.

Tom reaches forward and loops his fingers in the beltloops of her denims, and pulls, hard. The Chamber echoes with the sound of fabric ripping, and Hermione lets out a gasp of surprise. Voldemort Vanishes her ripped jeans, and then Tom reaches forward and tucks his fingers around her knickers. He meets her brown eyes and wonders if she’s realized what he has. By the life and wit in her eyes, he is guessing she has, and he cannot resist allowing a smirk to curve his lips as he pulls violently. He tosses aside the thin lacy fabric and rises up onto his knees to join them.

He pulls her hands from behind her back, releasing her from the magical bonds, and guides her hands to his torso, where they rest before cheekily sliding downwards. He grips her chin with one hand as he kisses her — meanwhile, his other hand slides downward, pushing Voldemort’s hand away to pinch her nipple before traveling further downward to hook between her wet lips.

She lets out a ragged moan as she reaches down and circles her small hand around his cock. Tom sighs, a sibilant sound, and moves his thumb along her clit. However, Voldemort will not be ignored, and he pushes them back down onto the bed and grasps Hermione’s hips. Tom guides her closer to him and pulls her down, thrusting up inside of her before Voldemort can.

Voldemort brings his hands to her face and Hermione sucks on his forefinger, closing her eyes and whimpering as Tom pounds into her over and over again, his grip painfully, perfectly tight on her hips. And then Voldemort is pushing his finger _there_ , and her eyes open as she lets out a cry of protest. Mid-cry it changes and she sighs, resting her head on Tom’s chest as he continues to move in and out of her. Then Voldemort is filling her up, and both men are pumping in and out of her, and it’s too much.

“Tom,” she gasps, her nails digging into his flesh. Voldemort lets out a hiss of rage — how dare she call out Tom’s name, and not his? — and possessively bites down on her shoulder.

But this time, she bleeds.

Voldemort gasps and hisses as he pulls out of her in shock, and snatches his robe as his eyes remained fixed on her shoulder, where beads of red are forming. He casts about for his wand, but Hermione is holding it.

“It’s a loophole in the Reincarnation spell,” she explains coolly. “Perhaps you forgot to read that bit...?”

All of the rage that she’s saved up all this time — he’s killed her friends, taken away her family, killed her, destroyed the Wizarding world — it comes out now. She is terrible and beautiful; in her fury she is radiant. Hermione raises the Elder Wand and in a flash of red light, Voldemort lies crumpled on the ground, pale as death, his face a death mask.

Panting, chests heaving, Tom and Hermione separate. Everything has again changed; Tom again feels a sense of the universe rearranging itself, just as he did when he found Hermione’s diary. Standing there in the Chamber, over Voldemort’s body, they are naked, cold, reborn.

“You knew all along, didn’t you? You knew this would end him,” Hermione remarks finally. She turns to look at Tom and he smirks but does not respond. He admires the now fully realized curves of her body — for Hermione is alive again; she has stolen the last of Voldemort’s life force.

He goes to her and places a possessive hand at the small of her back, and together they stare at Voldemort’s lifeless body. He remembers a passage he read, so long ago, during his first year of consciousness.

_“...Horcruxes are necessary to form the Reincarnate; in this way, fragments of two souls in different proportions can be combined. The Reincarnate is formed and is immortal, as long as the owners of the soul fragments are never united in flesh. Should one of the Donors be killed physically, it is possible for them to remain indefinitely as vapor. However, in the presence of the other Donor, and the Reincarnate, that vapor will take form as a human again. The Donors must take care to avoid this circumstance, as then it is possible that the more fragmented Donor’s life force will be drawn out by both the Reincarnate and the Vapor. “_

At the time, the passage was ridiculous to him. The entire book was filled with absurd loopholes described, situations that seemed so unlikely and nigh impossible that Tom had laughed. But he had not forgotten — as that was the first time he was made aware of the fact that he had been created from two Donors, and not one — and he can see now that Hermione never forgot, either.

“I should have been the one to die completely, here,” she begins, her brown eyes still trained on Voldemort’s body. Through their connection, Tom is awash with an overwhelmingly alien feeling: remorse. “But he could never properly make my Horcruxes for me, because I was already filled with so much remorse and guilt that they were never really made.”

“So your soul was only split in two,” confirms Tom. Hermione grimaces.

“Exactly. And when he murdered me at the Battle of Hogwarts, the only other piece of me was in you.”

Tom recalls his moment of Awakening — the moment he became conscious, the moment he was made. Rising, naked, from a black cauldron, fully formed as Voldemort had looked at age twenty seven, his grey eyes had looked about and taken in the wreckage of the castle, the fearful eyes of Voldemort’s followers, the dead bodies of those who had foolishly opposed him. He can recall spotting Hermione’s dead body behind Voldemort. At the time he had felt a prickle of awareness, but he had not thought anything of it — for he was taking in everything at once; all (or, rather, some) of Voldemort’s memories were being transferred to his mind.

But there’s something else that occurs to him now.

Now, he is mortal.

Now, he can die.

His heart, finally real, beats a little faster in response to this notion. He looks down at his Master’s dead body, and in spite of everything, has a great sense of loss. But when he looks at Hermione, he is fulfilled again.

Hermione turns to look at him, and their eyes meet.

In the cold light of the Chamber, her brown eyes, for one fleeting instant, glow red.

 

 

_End_

  
  



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